


Sweet Hellfire, Burn Away My Sins

by breadthief (trufield)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Javert Lives, M/M, Monster Dick, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Oral Sex, Post-Seine, Wingfic, javert inadvertantly condtions himself to have masochistic tendencies, self-harm as a form of sexual repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufield/pseuds/breadthief
Summary: The creature’s name sounded like Val-jean, if translated into French. Javert had studied the languages and ways of demons, and if he cared to, would make a very correct estimate of its spelling: 𐊀ሂኒƯጤጢ. Now, ‘Valjean’ fancied himself a man, and gave himself the moniker of a saint. Well, he wanted to give the impression of his humble humanity to the unsuspecting innocents. And what a perfect deceit it had been, certainly only a demon could cast such an illusion.Even Javert himself, decades in the Inquisition and raised by the church, had spent many months suspicious, but uncertain, of the good Mayor Madeleine. The list of evidence was long now; and all of the efforts of charity and municipal improvement could only be a guise for his nefarious plans.Inquisitor Javert is haunted by nightly visions of Valjean after the events of Montreuil-sur-Mer but when their paths cross again many years later, perhaps Valjean is not the beast he was always accused of being.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25
Collections: Valvert Monster Remix





	Sweet Hellfire, Burn Away My Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Two Silver Pistols, and Holy Writ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499790) by [iberiandoctor (Jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor). 



> a remix of Two Silver Pistols, and Holy Writ for the discord monster fic remix exchange
> 
> Thanks to madmerchant for betaing <3

As the townsfolk huddled in the light and safety of the Great Hall, keeping the tempest of All Soul’s at bay, Javert prowled the dark and blustery streets. He had long accepted it as his natural place, in the darkness, on the outside of society; but sought to use his unique position in society’s defense. On this night, his blood rushed through his veins with sweet, heady satisfaction, and as such, he did not feel the night’s unnatural chill.

Tonight, on this hellish evening, he would do the good Lord’s work. After many months of investigation and planning, he would finally cast out the most foul of demons.

Javert had captured him before, in iron chains that seared his flesh. Only days out of the pit, he had been a feral beast - ragged and frenzied, with all the cunning of the devil and the languid evil of a cat, his sullen eyes burning with the fires of hate. He had broken his bonds when he had been prepared for his wing amputation. He had fled, and all agreed a beast of such strength was too dangerous to recapture, and Javert was enlisted to assist in casting him back from whence he came.

It was something not often done, as a demon sent to Hell could crawl its way back eventually and wreak havoc elsewhere. Better to muzzle and cripple them, safely studying their physiology to devise the best methods of combating them. The beasts were strong and required little sustenance, making them valuable for labour and entirely expendable. That chain breaker would have been an excellent worker, if only they had managed to castrate him first. He had been widely regarded as the strongest beast any of the guards had encountered.

The creature’s name sounded like _Val-jean,_ if translated into French. Javert had studied the languages and ways of demons, and if he cared to, would make a very correct estimate of its spelling: 𐊀ሂኒƯጤጢ. Now, ‘Valjean’ fancied himself a man, and gave himself the moniker of a saint. Well, he wanted to give the impression of his humble humanity to the unsuspecting innocents. And what a perfect deceit it had been, certainly only a demon could cast such an illusion.

Even Javert himself, decades in the Inquisition and raised by the church, had spent many months suspicious, but uncertain, of the good Mayor Madeleine. The list of evidence was long now; and all of the efforts of charity and municipal improvement could only be a guise for his nefarious plans. 

What other explanation could there be for the town’s sudden affluence and business renown? The most common deals unwitting humans made with such demons were for wealth. To be free of financial and societal pressures, any such offer was too tempting for most and they signed away their souls to protect their life in the present. Fools. 

There had been many reports (too many) of gold coins appearing in the homes of unsuspecting poor folk who believed themselves blessed. It could only be the work of demon-spawn. It could only be Madeleine, who avoided any social duties he could, who was rumoured to have all manner of nefarious things in his home, who patrolled the streets and alleyways in the darkness of night. 

Indeed, the quiet, _kindly_ gentleman had built a fine hospital that treated everyone - even the poor and destitute - but what better way to collect the sick and dying together? The Mayor was known to frequent this purgatory of his own making, where the dying desperately clung to life, to pray at their bedsides. Javert knew that he was waiting for them to exhale their last breaths so he could steal their souls along with it. Known demonic behaviour. He regularly attended funerals, and for what other reason than to celebrate another successful acquisition?

Not anymore. 

Javert threw the doors of the Great Hall open with the righteous fury of God's will, as the unnatural wind rattled the windows with ghostly moans, and lightning broke the skies apart above him, he strode inside with all the prideful arrogance of mortal man. 

\-----

It had gone so well in the beginning. The Mayor had feigned pathetic ignorance to Javert’s thinly veiled accusations; he trembled under Javert’s scrutiny and beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow. His eyes had grown wider as Javert drew closer, panicked. Prey.

But then the Mayor flexed his authority one last time, his superior position over Javert, and it incensed him. The injustice of it. The mockery. And then… and then…

What had happened next plagued him for years.

The only explanation he chose to believe was that Valjean, a full-blooded, powerful demon, had called upon the demon-blood within Javert, and put him in some kind of thrall. He saw the vision of Valjean, in all his true, terrifying glory - his body large and firm, the brilliant white wings that framed him, the undulating halo-cloud of matching curls, and the sharp, vicious organ lit with flame that stood proud and hideous between his muscled thighs.

Javert’s breath had caught in his throat and he failed. Precisely in that moment. He was infused with sinful, sickening lusts, even as he snapped and snarled and fought against that horror, that beast. Valjean caught him by the throat, threw him down upon his back, and Javert didn’t have the opportunity to breathe again. He writhed and groaned with the demon’s hand too hot against his throat, almost to the point of burning. 

Too late did he realise his struggles had become sensual; that his writhing was to seek the terrible touch, not to escape it. That his strained groans had become pleading. Valjean’s broad chest was displayed above him, heaving and glistening with sweat, lit by the light of his vulgar and dangerous sex. Javert spasmed and whimpered as that most evil of creatures reduced the Inquisitor to disgrace his uniform with the hot, wet stain of lust.

He blinked, and he was standing opposite the fully clothed, greying Mayor, a table between them. In a banquet hall full of people shaking off their own haze. Yes. That was right, that was as it should be.

Perhaps the Mayor had regarded him with fleeting surprise before he had schooled his features, Javert was too shaken to track his every movement as he had been. 

“Will you do it, Monsieur? Will you act on the Lord’s business, and do what you came here to do?”

His voice seemed distant, certainly not as strong and authoritarian as before. Javert straightened his posture, and inhaled a sharp breath through his nose at the sensation of sticky fabric clinging to his groin. He swallowed bile. 

“No,” he said, his own voice much fainter than it ought to be. He straightened his greatcoat, giving himself the illusion that he still retained his dignity. “The Inquisition will stay its hand. For now.”

He left the brightness and the perverse society of that room, stepping out once more into the frigid darkness. Where he belonged.

\-----

Valjean had cursed him. After that hellish All-Soul’s night, his vile body had invaded Javert’s unconscious mind, and every night he would wrestle Javert’s protests and impale him upon his wicked flesh. And every time, Javert was grateful for it.

Until he awoke, his own feeble cock hard and aching against his thigh. He was nauseated.

He had redoubled his efforts to prove his virtue, and to prove to Valjean that he would not be enthralled by such a creature. Some might even say he became manic in his pursuit, obsessed with the 'good' Mayor. Javert did not care. More than justice, he was driven by the desire to banish his own nightly torment. 

Then, in a fit of frenzy caused by a volatile concoction of sexual frustration and lack of sleep, he had held a silver crucifix against the Mayor’s forehead. It had been creased in the most sickening concern and pity over a whore and Javert couldn’t stand to see it for a moment longer. He heard the hiss of burning flesh and his face split into the most wicked of grins.

Valjean did not cry out in pain, but when Javert pulled his hand away, the neat brand of the cross on his brow was clear for all to see. From that moment, Javert had total authority and he commanded with vicious glee for Valjean to be imprisoned. It was foolish of him to think that this time he could ensure Valjean received the treatment he deserved. 

The unmasking of Madeleine did not stop the dreams. They worsened with Valjean’s escape, and Javert wondered feverishly if they would drive him to his death. He would rather die than submit to the devil, but either way Valjean would win. Javert lived stubbornly tormented instead, as if that wasn’t also a loss.

He beat back the desires with pain, punishing his body for being aroused by such sin. At first it was his belt, whipping red welts across his thighs, the pain wiping his mind completely, leaving no room for pleasure. But too soon did his body grow accustomed to the pain. Too soon did the bitten-back grunts of discomfort become groans of pleasure. It terrified him.

Javert was half demon. His mother had been burnt at the stake, accused of being a witch, and Javert had watched. He had been glad. Her guilt or innocence was largely irrelevant to him, for she must have been consorting with demons to get impregnated by one. He was not thankful to her for giving him life.

It was common practice for captured demon-spawn to be castrated, or have their horrific sex removed entirely. Javert had witnessed it, he had even wielded the blade on occasion. He had never thought he would contemplate such a procedure on himself.

Yet as he awoke sweat-drenched from yet another fitful sleep, it was the most tempting idea. An assured, lifelong relief from his curse.

He could not do it. To do so would be to admit he had no control over his own body, to admit, after all his work, that he was no better than any other demon-spawn. If he took a blade to himself, he may as well have indulged in every sinful thought.

Instead, as his body grew used to his punishments, he would devise something else. His belt went from whipping, to choking, to the buckle cutting into his flesh. From his thighs, to the source of his struggles - his dark and vulgar sex, taunting him with its resilience. 

His own private torture methods grew more complex and intricate as he had to devise progressively worse punishments. The tools of his trade: a silver crucifix on a rosary of black iron beads, a silver blade, holy water. It wasn’t against regulation to use them in such a way, he reasoned. Their intended use was to suppress and punish demons, and that was precisely what he was doing.

With only half demon blood, their effect on him wasn’t as extreme as it was on the flesh of true demon-spawn. He could hold silver against his skin for some minutes before feeling a tingling that would grow into burning. 

One of the most effective punishments he had devised, was to wrap his cock with the rosary, so that when it became engorged, it could not rise. The rosary would bite into it as it filled with devil-blood, and if his body continued to persist, it would start to burn. Sometimes even this wasn’t enough to banish lustful visions, and he would douse his sore and straining flesh in holy water.

The pain of such extreme measures often made him pass out, but even if he returned to the world with the stickiness of his spend on his skin, he counted it as a victory that it could only be pulled from him unconsciously. 

\-----

Time had been Javert’s greatest ally. Each year that passed took him further away from his distasteful beginnings, and over the years since Montreuil-sur-Mer, the memories of Valjean grew weaker. In Paris, those dark days felt distant, and after nearly a decade since he last was in Valjean’s company, his thrall seemed to wear thinner with each passing season. 

Javert still had nightmares occasionally, but not every night, and he still had the tools of his trade if necessary.

Then Hell had come to Paris.

Except this wasn’t the Hell-on-Earth Javert had always been braced for. This was the Hell of humanity: children with the faces of angels and eyes full of hellfire. Virtuous fury, making its own laws. Changing the rules.

The streets ran with blood, and the air was thick with gunpowder and desperation. Javert saw the devil in humanity that day, on both sides. He saw holiness too. Divine mercy and justice where he had refused to see it before.

In Valjean. A being that should possess no virtues at all. 

The brilliant white of his hair was no vision this time. He saved Javert twice that night when he should have sought painful vengeance - once from the insurgents and once from Javert himself. 

Javert’s mind had been reeling after Valjean had rescued him from bloodthirsty children. Man could be as wicked as the devil, and as kind as a saint, but how many times had a villainous citizen blamed the work of demon-spawn for his own actions? An easy scapegoat, and one that Javert would have always believed. How often had he been duped to turn a blind eye to the evils of man?

All his life, he had been far too concerned with the demon blood in him when he should have considered his humanity. Any evil he had done was on him: Javert, half demon, half man, but one _whole_. The whole of him should be to blame.

He murmured an incantation he knew well but had rarely spoken. Demonic languages came more easily to him than others, but he was always loath to admit it, even though it was one of his assets favoured by the Inquisition. They were well aware of Javert as a whole - reinforcing human structure and society, appealing to his humanity while exploiting his useful demonic traits to send him on the most dangerous of missions. 

He thought of Valjean. Javert had never been under any thrall, he had just been in denial. He could not even say if that vision he saw in Montreuil had been a defence mechanism of Valjean's to show his power when he felt threatened, or the work of Javert’s own imagination. 

Valjean had always been honest in his aid of the town, and Javert had always been deceitful to himself.

Javert cut his palm with his silver knife and extended his hand, letting his blood drip into the Seine. The dark waters bubbled and frothed red, swirling into a vortex. As Javert stepped up onto the parapet and looked down, he could make out his fiery destination at its centre.

The deep rumble of devil-speak seemed to vibrate in his ribcage and worm into his brain. For a moment he thought it was Hell calling to him, but then the spiralling waters changed direction, and the opening began to shrink. He remembered Valjean's eyes, fully of rage and pain when Javert had cast him back all those years ago. Javert launched himself off the bridge in desperation.

He never hit the water.

He stared down into it, suspended in the air. The water was still turbulent but no longer red, just the black of the night sky. He looked up to see Valjean's bearded chin and two huge, brilliant white wings hauling them away from the river. Valjean's strong arms were secured tightly around Javert’s chest, even when they landed in a heap on the cobbles and Valjean's laboured breaths were hot in his ear.

"Javert. You cannot. Curse yourself to such a fate. Not there. Never there."

\-----

Javert had been taken to Valjean's residence and there he had remained. For weeks he was sombre and silent, shaken to the point of feeling nothing at all. Valjean still fed and cared for him, for reasons Javert could not fathom.

Occasionally there was a human girl who posed as Valjean's daughter. Javert realised belatedly that this was the whore's child and that she was indeed fully human. He had always been of the assumption that whores were in league with demon-spawn, being representatives of Lust. The child's humanity proved him incorrect once again. All those years ago he had believed Valjean protected Fantine because he sowed his seed inside her. Yet here he was, protecting and raising a child that wasn't his own, as best he could under the pretense of a human man.

Valjean would often try and engage him in conversation, although he wasn't much good at it himself. He would usually resort to a sermon on why Javert shouldn't damn himself. 

"Whatever the punishment, I'd deserve it," Javert had replied sullenly.

"No. You wouldn't. The torture would make you forget why you were even there, I can't even imagine what they would do to you for hunting them." Valjean shuddered. "I suffered that place, Javert. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone."

"Not even your worst enemy," Javert sneered bitterly.

"You are not my enemy," Valjean implored, his eyes filled with such deep sorrow that Javert had to look away.

\-----

Javert remained. He had nowhere else to go. His world had narrowed to the rooms in Valjean’s home, and that suited him fine. The world outside was too vast for him to comprehend, and he was struggling to cope as it was. He remained because part of him didn't want to leave Valjean - the part he would have reasoned before was due to demon blood or being caught in a non-existent thrall.

After leaving that border of Heaven-and-Hell, Montreuil sur Mer, they had each made their own purgatory of Paris. To coexist there seemed reasonable, in a city where the good and ill of humanity reigned, and the fear of demon-spawn felt distant. Irrelevant.

"Why do you hide them when we are alone?" Javert asked one day. They conversed now, a little at least. The girl was hardly ever around these days.

Valjean raised a questioning eyebrow over his teacup. He did make a very convincing human, but Javert supposed it might be something to do with him being a demon who was hardly demonic.

"Your wings," Javert clarified. "They are beautiful."

If he concentrated hard enough, he could see the shimmer of illusion at Valjean's back that flattened out the lump of his wings beneath his jacket. 

When Valjean looked at him, his eyes wide, Javert knew he was recalling that All Soul’s night in Montreuil. It was the only time Javert had seen them in their true glory. Not ragged, dirty and battered, strapped to his body with chains. Not covered in shit and sewage. In that moment, Javert knew that vision had not been the workings of his imagination. 

Valjean looked into his tea and smiled sadly. "I suppose I just wish to be a man."

He left Javert alone not long after, and did not show his wings. Javert should not be disappointed. He was. 

The dreams came to him more frequently after that, and without his tools, Javert was at their mercy. He had thrown his rosary, silver knife and flask into the churning river, and now he sorely missed them.

Sometimes Valjean was the devil, fiery and forceful, burning Javert from the inside out. Other times it was his mercy and gentleness that were the source of Javert’s pain: a tender kiss to his forehead as Javert subjected his own body to routine punishment. 

Every time Javert awoke from such dreams, he was anxious. With none of his methods of abating his arousal, he grew frantic. Afraid. He had conditioned himself not to feel raw carnal pleasure for so long, that to feel it was uniquely, psychologically upsetting.

Once, Valjean had walked in on him tightening his belt around his neck, and frantically pinned him down, believing it to be a suicide attempt. Tears stung Javert's eyes as he shuddered through his climax under Valjean's bruising grip. Thankfully his bedsheets concealed him, and Valjean was too distraught to understand the truth of the event.

The next morning, Javert walked into the kitchen to see Valjean's wings. They were curled around his broad shoulders self-consciously, and Javert could not resist raising his hand towards the smooth, snowy feathers.

"You are still hiding," he murmured as his fingertips brushed feather-edges.

Valjean trembled all over, head bowed. He was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and Javert realised all such garments of Valjean's would have been painstakingly and carefully adapted to allow for his wings to fit through. It was only his jackets and coats that covered them, Valjean distorting the fabric to stretch and then covering his back with a minor illusion. 

"I'm not going to cut them," Javert promised in a whisper.

"I know."

Javert's fingers moved of their own accord, stroking down the edge of the wing at first, and then, as the limb relaxed, he discovered the soft, downy feathers on the inside. The wing fluttered slightly under the attention, and Valjean's breath came in a shuddering gasp. It was entrancing. 

Javert was so focused on watching his fingers burying into pale feathers that were rather ragged under closer inspection, he did not see Valjean turn his head. He felt the gentle press of lips against his forehead, as soft as the feathers he caressed.

They separated from each other in an instant.

"S-sorry," Valjean said. "I don't know what came over me."

His wings were folded back and illusioned away so quickly, that Javert might have imagined the whole experience if not for Valjean’s awkward countenance.

Valjean crept away again, ever escaping. To another room or the garden, but never too far. Javert could feel it. He had keen senses for demon-spawn. 

He didn't know if he should chase anymore. Everything had changed, but that instinct to track Valjean had remained. Was it right? If Valjean had removed himself, why should Javert pursue him?

Javert wasn't sure he was certain of anything anymore, and that was the most exhausting thing of all. He poured himself tea, remained in the kitchen until he had drained his cup, and then let go and allowed himself to follow his instincts.

They led him to the hut in the garden. The door was unlocked, and Javert stepped inside. He had never entered the shabby building before, but the small space was permeated with the sense of Valjean - a smoky taste-scent at the back of Javert's throat. It was evident that before Javert arrived, this was where Valjean lived. This in turn made it clear that he only slept in the house to keep watch on Javert. Javert did not know how to feel about any of this.

The space was small, cold and dark. Before, Javert would have considered it a suitable home for a demon, but now… now he found it sad. Unjust, even.

"Javert?"

It should be ridiculous to see such a large man sat upon such a small, rickety bed but all Javert could think of was how many nights Valjean had slept on unforgiving floors. Any such bed was surely more of a comfort than that.

"Javert?"

Javert shook his head. "You shouldn't have to hide within your own home, is all I mean to say."

"Thank you," Valjean said softly, his dark eyes seeing too much.

Javert had always been a terrible liar.

\-----

Valjean, Javert learned, was sick. Sick with loneliness. 

He appeared to crave company, yet could not ask for it. He would creep into whatever room Javert occupied and sit near but not close enough. He would babble about any kind of inane, nonsensical topics just to have an excuse for conversation. It was maddening.

He still kept his wings hidden, but Javert began to suspect it was more to prevent how they might behave. What they might indicate with their fluttering.

Then, one night, Valjean was trapped in a night terror.

Javert had heard him before, when he couldn't sleep and crept through the house, a loyal dog on patrol. Soft whimpers and pained groans. Pleading protests. Javert had always walked on. Valjean was probably plagued by Javert’s previous behaviour, it was not Javert’s place to comfort him. Javert was incapable of such a thing anyway.

Javert probably made noises in his sleep too, although for entirely different reasons, and he would not want Valjean to come and rouse him in repayment.

That night Valjean's muttered protestations did not peter out into intelligible mumbles and soft breaths: they grew louder. So loud, that as Javert returned to bed and began to drift to sleep, a shout jolted him fully awake once more. He waited, but Valjean did not cease, and so Javert crept across the hallway again. 

He opened the door to Valjean’s room to witness him thrashing violently, his wings flailing and beating as his body writhed, trapped in the bedsheets. The bed was littered with loose feathers.

To shout would surely only make the situation worse, and restraint would be impossible - Valjean was far too strong. Javert could feel the powerful gusts of air from his erratic wing beats. He doubted he could even get close enough to touch Valjean's arm.

He resorted to repeating the only gentle touch he had ever given. He extended his fingers to brush against Valjean's feathers.

Valjean still whimpered, but his wing did not flap as violently, and Javert risked moving his fingers to the inside. If Valjean hit him with the full force of his wing, it would surely break the bones in Javert’s hand.

Thankfully, Valjean began to relax under the awkward caresses, and Javert was able to dig his fingers into the softest feathers, closest to Valjean's back. It was only then he realised Valjean was naked. It made sense, it was the only way to sleep comfortably with such wings when he couldn't make slight stretches in reality to accommodate them in clothing while he was unconscious.

Javert did not touch his skin, although he could feel the heat radiating from it. He continued his ministrations, repetitive and therapeutic even for himself, until Valjean roused.

"You were having a nightmare," Javert said somewhat feebly, not ceasing the motion of his hand.

"Yes," Valjean whispered, slightly dazed, as if he were still in a dream.

Then, much to Javert's surprise, those large, soft wings enveloped him in a downy cocoon. Valjean’s beard was rough against Javert's cheek as he pressed close. No words were spoken. Neither of them moved. Valjean was so warm on that chill autumn night that Javert fell into sleep with unfamiliar ease.

They shared a bed after that night, Valjean wearing a nightshirt that had been cut at the back to allow for his wings. He was always abed when Javert entered, so Javert could not see how the garment had been fashioned.

Javert could not say how the agreement was made, or why he continued visiting Valjean's room, but he did and Valjean welcomed him with a relief each night that he could not refuse. Javert’s body, which had always struggled with the cold, sought the ever-lit furnace of Valjean. His skin was always warmer than that of a mortal man, and Javert always awoke to find himself pressed close. Valjean graced him with a soft smiles that were too close to contentment for Javert to stomach. 

Surely Valjean could not be ignorant to the heat between Javert’s legs, but neither of their hands strayed into contact with bare skin. Valjean always rose early, and Javert was left alone. He could not decide whether this was mercy or torture. But this was something Javert was almost comfortable with - he could not stomach pleasure unless it came hand in hand with pain.

Throwing himself into the embrace of the devil was no different to his attempt to throw himself into Hell. Except it was. Valjean was a demon that didn’t belong in the fires of the underworld, just as Javert didn’t belong to the church. Valjean was virtuous and chaste where Javert was lustful and greedy. 

Much to Javert's surprise, his presence did not exacerbate Valjean's nightmares - quite the opposite. He supposed Valjean never had such a placid bedfellow in his past and so Javert grounded him to the present. Externally placid, anyway. Inside, Javert was a destructive storm of desire and it was only a matter of time before it had to be confronted. 

\-----

It was nearly a week of sharing a bed before Valjean's thigh lazily brushed against Javert's erection one morning. Javert's damning intake of breath was something neither of them could ignore. A point of no return. 

Valjean's shuddering breath was hot against Javert’s temple. They were frozen for what felt like long moments but could have only been seconds, until Valjean pressed his lips to Javert's forehead. Javert shivered and clung to Valjean's large, firm bicep which flexed beneath the contact. 

Valjean’s lips moved to his cheek next, and the gentleness of his kisses felt like they could burn. Javert buried his face against Valjean's neck, unable to stand it, as his hips rocked against that powerful body. He tried to burrow closer and bleated a moan like a lamb to slaughter. 

"Oh, Javert…" Valjean sighed into his hair, always so gentle. Never understanding. 

His large, rough hand ventured cautiously between Javert’s legs to grab hold of his sins, and Javert thought he might shake apart completely in his grip. 

The caress was too slow, too careful and too kind. Javert rutted against him with as much force as he could, wishing Valjean would grip him tightly to the point of pain. Until his vision blurred with tears and white spots, but he knew Valjean wouldn't do such a thing.

Javert suffered under that loving caress, feeling as if he were burning, like he might combust, or perhaps he was going to vomit, he couldn't tell. Everything was too much and not enough, total damnation and yet at the same time a great blessing he could never deserve. 

Then, Javert felt the tip of Valjean's own arousal, hard and sharp and _hot_ , press against his leg. The promise of a painful union sent a rush of excitement through him that brought forth his release, splattering the evidence of his desires over Valjean's nightshirt. 

Javert felt limp and weak, especially within such a strong embrace. Valjean buried his nose in his hair and Javert had to turn away from him. 

"Javert?" The worry in Valjean’s voice was more difficult to bear than his tender touch. "Do you think… I have damned you? I am sorry. That was not my intent. And if it is true, I have lowered us both."

"I dammed myself long ago with thoughts of you," Javert muttered before he looked back over his shoulder. "But you mean to tell me with _equipment_ like yours, you've never used it?"

He was met with Valjean's frown. "I've never had any wish to use it. It is a terrible, ugly thing that can only bring pain. If I had been captive long enough for it to have been removed, I would not have missed it."

His wing left Javert to curl over himself instead, hiding himself and making a barrier between them. 

"I don't think it would be so terrible," Javert murmured, turning back to rest his hand against the feathers. 

"You don't know what you're saying."

Valjean did not raise his wing, and left the bed soon after.

\-----

Valjean went into hiding. Slipping out of whichever room Javert entered with some muttered excuse. He did not join Javert in bed, in his own room. It was ridiculous. Javert could only stomach a day of it, and he cornered Valjean in the hut the following morning. 

"I've seen your body. It changes nothing," he snapped. "I have resisted so long, and now I finally accept my fate, and you would deny me. You deny me my death, my damnation, and now you would deny me this. What is it that you want from me?! For what purpose am I here at all if you will deny me everything?"

"I do not do this to deny you-"

"No. In this you deny us both, which is even more nonsensical."

He stepped forward, into Valjean's personal space. A challenge. Valjean's wings rose, instinctively making himself appear larger, preparing for a fight. 

"You find your body repulsive? I consider mine just the same." He roughly pulled his cravat undone. "Perhaps if you see it for yourself you will stop this stupidity."

Javert undressed hurriedly and without ceremony, while Valjean stood, dumbstruck.

The silence continued when Javert was bare, his lank, pathetic mostly-human body uncomfortably clear. His cock, limp and shrivelled, hung weakly between his legs. 

"Oh, Javert," Valjean breathed, his wings dropping down as he extended his hand to brush against Javert's neck. "These scars…"

His eyes made a brief assessment of Javert's body.

"You have so many…" he frowned, his hand going down to Javert's thigh, his fingers barely resting against the dark, raised bump of a scar. "These are… silver burns? Javert, who did this to you? The church?"

Valjean's hand left him as it went to cover his mouth in horror as he noticed all of the abuse inflicted upon Javert's genitals. His cock had begun to stiffen under Valjean's fleeting attention, making the damage more apparent. It was criss-crossed with dark lines that his rosary had left behind, the brownish red colour of a scab, even though the skin was long healed.

"I did this to myself," Javert confessed without emotion as Valjean's eyes filled with sorrow.

Valjean had nothing to say to that, except for the sadness and regret that were in his eyes. Javert didn't want to see that, so he averted his gaze. After a moment's hesitation, Valjean also began to undress. 

Javert’s attention was brought back to him completely, focusing with undisguised hunger as that magnificent body that had plagued his dreams for so long was revealed.

To remove his waistcoat and shirt, Valjean had to pull on a string at the back. Both seemed to have been fashioned with a tie at his lower back and back of the neck, like an apron, meaning Valjean's back was actually bare in such clothes, and the front fastenings were merely for appearances.

The garments fell away to reveal a broad and powerful chest, hairless and smooth. Javert watched how the muscles flexed as Valjean bent to remove his shoes and stockings. He ached to touch, but Valjean's hesitant fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers interested him more. 

When the trousers had joined the rest of their clothes on the floor, Valjean was not the vision of hellish power Javert had witnessed all those years ago. He was awkward, wings once more curled around his large frame, not extended to their full, incredible length, and that monstrous sex was extinguished. Javert knelt at Valjean's feet to examine it.

Valjean braced a hand against his shoulder, as if to push him away. No rejection came, but Javert could feel the tension in him. 

His cock was large, thick and impressive, even when flaccid. It was the colour of charcoal, threaded with glowing veins of molten fire. Its head was more pointed than that of a human's, and a barb curved over it, like the head of a harpoon.

Javert touched it. The barb pressed down easily under the pressure of his finger. He tested the point and found it to be sharp. Valjean tightened his grip on Javert's shoulder. Javert cupped his hand around its girth, its warmth making his palm immediately sweat. His other hand felt Valjean's testicles, which were also large and heavy, covered in small, sharp hairs. Before, Javert would have been disgusted by all the demon-seed contained within, and all the potential demon-spawn that could be brought into being. Now, all he wanted to know was how it looked spattered on his skin. 

"Javert-" Valjean hissed, yet did nothing.

The muscles in his powerful thighs were taught, and Javert could not resist feeling those too, and wonder if Valjean could crush his skull between them. With one hand on Valjean's thigh, the other around his cock, Javert brought his lips to its head. 

"Javert- you shouldn't-" Valjean gasped helplessly above him as Javert sucked at the crown, his lip pushed up by the protruding barb.

He moved his lips along the shaft as it stiffened, small blue flames sputtering and licking up its length as Javert's tongue swept down. The flames tingled but Javert was as resilient to demon-fire as he was to silver, which was what made him such an asset to the Inquisition.

Making his way back to the tip, he found the barb had become a rigid point at 45 degrees, and Javert shuddered to imagine it put to its purpose - locking itself inside until it softened. Javert continued as best he could, getting his mouth around Valjean's girth would have been difficult, but he would have tried if not for the barb which made such a thing impossible.

Valjean's cock gave an upward twitch of pleasure at Javert's efforts, and before any pride could set in, the blue tongues of flame burst into an orange inferno that encased Valjean's sex completely. Javert instinctively recoiled, but moved in again immediately, feeling his lips begin to blister at the contact.

"Javert!" 

Valjean shoved him back, hard enough to send Javert sprawling on the floor. Such a position gave him a perfect view of Valjean's body. Valjean stood tall above him, wings outspread, his flames patterning his shimmering skin with a warm glow.

"Beautiful," Javert murmured, feeling his lip split as it stretched around the word. Valjean crouched down beside him to thumb away the trickle of blood.

"I don't want you burning yourself. And at least let us use the bed."

Valjean directed a trembling smile at him, and helped him up.

"Javert, what is that?"

Valjean’s hand groped at his back and Javert shuddered, squeezing his eyes closed.

"Oh, are they _wings_?"

Javert snorted. "Hardly. Just the poor attempt to develop them in the womb."

Valjean assessed his back once they were sitting on the bed. 

Javert had two protrusions about half way down his back, as long as his index finger and twice as wide. The beginnings of wings, the first underdeveloped bones of them - useless, naked, rounded stumps. He bound them to his back and tried his best to ignore them. 

He hissed as Valjean caressed one. 

"I'm sorry, does it hurt?"

"They're just sore from being bound, they always are. You know how it is, I imagine."

Valjean began to massage the base of them with his thumbs and Javert choked back a groan. They were sensitive like this. He had never wanted to touch them. He would have had them removed if that didn't involve showing them to a doctor to do the procedure. Not to mention the physical risk and long recovery of such an amputation. Now he was glad that he hadn't.

He couldn't stop them wiggling under Valjean's touch, he was too unused to their being able to move. It was an almost perfect sensation: sore, as if a bruise was being pressed, and at the same time a stimulation of nerves that seemed to go straight to his cock. Javert groaned, clutching the sheets.

"It always feels nice when you touch mine," Valjean whispered, his lips pressing against the back of Javert's neck. 

Javert bit into his sore lip as one wing stump was enveloped in soft, wet heat. Valjean was _sucking_ on it, like a cock, and Javert panted helplessly. The massage of the other stump continued as Valjean stroked with his tongue.

"Fuck," Javert gasped. "Your tongue is forked?"

Something that could not have been considered angelic, but the sensation each tip gave as they moved independently was divine. It must have been something else Valjean ordinarily illusioned away.

He shivered, feeling much colder as soon as Valjean stopped and moved back from him.

"Oh."

Valjean's breath fanned over his ear and he leaned in over Javert's shoulder to see his erection, turgid and leaking. His hand came around Javert's hip, but Javert batted it away, knowing it would be too gentle to bear.

Valjean curled a wing around them instead, and although it was an even softer touch, Javert had the pleasure of burying his fingers into the feathers. Valjean hummed, nipping at Javert's ear, one hand still rubbing a wing stump. He trailed his primary feathers along Javert’s thighs, cock and stomach, a gentle back-and-forth motion that Javert attempted to rut up against.

Javert sank his teeth harder into his lip and it was almost enough. Almost. The spike of pain must have made him pull too hard on Valjean's feathers as there was a sudden quick beat of that heavy wing. The force of the slap against Javert's cock brought tears to his eyes and brought forth his release.

"Oh- oh- I'm so sorry- I did not mean-"

Javert sighed and laid down, his legs across Valjean's lap. Valjean regarded him with a slightly puzzled expression before he seemed to appreciate how relaxed Javert was. 

"You've really hurt your lip," Valjean leaned over to wipe the blood off his chin that Javert hadn’t noticed. 

Javert kissed him instead. The taste of blood mingled with the smoky taste of Valjean’s mouth, and he rubbed his tongue between the fork in Valjean's. Javert could feel the deep groan Valjean produced vibrate in all of his bones. Javert knew his cock was still a flaming sword of desire. He reached for it.

Valjean slapped his hand away. "No."

Javert had every intention of grabbing for it again, but Valjean grabbed his wrist.

"Just… you can just watch me, alright?"

Valjean grasped himself firmly, without any sign of pain. His eyes flicked up to Javert self-consciously before he closed them and began to stroke. 

Javert wanted to look everywhere at once. The bulging of his bicep as he pumped, his large hand working over his even larger cock, his firm, spread thighs, his trembling wings, his plump, slack lips. Valjean still had hold of Javert's wrist, and he could feel that if Valjean lost control in the throes of passion again, he would shatter the fragile bones. If Javert wasn’t so exhausted, the experience might have roused him again.

Javert stroked the feathers he could reach with his free hand, making Valjean sigh and relax into the situation. He still did not open his eyes or let Javert go. 

Then, there was a deep rumble in Valjean's chest like the impending roar of a lion, and then he gasped, thick ropes of white staining the sheets. The fabric smoked where it landed. Valjean beat his wings as another burst of seed spilled from him, and another. Javert watched, entranced. He could no longer feel his wrist. 

"You needed that, huh," Javert said, satisfied and lazy as Valjean opened his eyes.

He looked at the mess he had made and his face reddened.

"Come on, we need to get mine out of your feathers before it dries."

"Oh dear," Valjean muttered, bringing his wings awkwardly back around himself.

Seeing him in that moment, blushing about come stains on his feathers, it was a wonder that Javert had ever considered him one of the most foul demons he had ever pursued.

\-----

Life was easier to bear after that. It was as if Javert's head had broken the surface of the water and he could finally breathe. 

They touched one another again when they reached the bedroom that evening, and again the next morning. Javert made discoveries with each encounter, and could explore Valjean's anatomy to his heart's content after, when the literal fires of passion were extinguished and Valjean would not be so fraught about the potential of burns. 

In his assessment after their morning intimacy, he discovered a thick, clear fluid when scratching his palm against Valjean's spiny testicles. 

"You are leaking something."

"Oh, um," Valjean brought his hand between his legs and behind his genitals. "It's… protection."

Javert wrinkled his nose. "Is it poisonous?"

Valjean smiled hesitantly and shook his head. 

"I'm sure you know that the demon member is built for pain, and is a weapon of rape."

Javert nodded. Demon penises could be very different, but all had barbs, spurs or spikes to make for a painful experience.

"And so, in the lawlessness of Hell, it is common sport for demons to rut with one another. A demon body is built to inflict pain but also to endure it. The muscle of the hole is thick, and can contract tightly to deny entry, but if that fails, it is lubricated to lessen the damage."

"You did not have to-"

"No," Valjean shook his head. "My strength has been a blessing."

"Can I…?" Javert began, rubbing the thick substance absently between thumb and forefinger.

Blood flushed Valjean's cheeks again and he nodded, removing his hands from between his legs. He shifted from his sitting position to turn onto his knees - Valjean could not lie on his back comfortably, he would squash his wings. Javert had spent a lot of time preening them the previous afternoon after realising Valjean did not adequately care for them himself. He had separated all of the matted feathers and wouldn't want Valjean to treat them poorly after all of his hard work. 

Valjean had to hold his wings out slightly to not cover his rear. They trembled in uncertain anticipation. 

Javert parted his cheeks to see Valjean’s glistening hole. He supposed it had ceased leaking its fluid once Valjean had climaxed, but it still appeared generously coated. As he probed with his finger, it sealed up completely. Javert prodded the firm, springy muscle, and his thin finger was swallowed up with shocking ease.

Valjean was stiflingly hot inside, but not burning. He pulsed and squeezed around Javert's finger, and Javert could feel his strength.

He pulled out when the heat had begun to make him light-headed, and Valjean turned back around to nip lightly at his scabbed lip. He seemed to understand that Javert needed some degree of pain, but was reluctant to provide it even though he was perfectly equipped to. His care and gentleness were still a source of frustration, but Javert bore it. He still had a deep purple bruise around his wrist from the first time, and the ones from Valjean's finger tips sinking into his hips the second time were coming through beautifully.

In the most recent encounter, Valjean had even left him with a bite sucked into his neck. A sign of hope for the treatment Javert desired most. 

Valjean winced to see his marks on Javert's body, but Javert displayed them to him with pride. He felt Valjean trace the edges of the bite.

"I suppose they are preferable to making scars," Valjean conceded, looking upon Javert's scarred legs. "And they are placed with love, not hate."

"You think too much," Javert muttered, having not considered that word before. 

It was a word that made him restless all day, and gave him the despised task of thinking. He looked at Valjean often, but he supposed that was not unusual. 

What was the difference between love and lust? One was innocent, the other sinful. Give and take, joy and damnation. He did not doubt Valjean felt the former, but could both coexist? Could he care for Valjean emotionally while desiring his body?

He raised his eyes to see Valjean stifling laughter at Javert frowning into the depths of his coffee, his eyes crinkled at the edges, and came to the conclusion that both states already coexisted within him.

Javert raised his hand to move aside the curl that fell slightly over Valjean's forehead. Beneath was the small, faded scar of a crucifix. Rather than branding him as a demon, it made Valjean appear more divine - a creature touched by God. Valjean's smile did not fade.

\-----

"Javert, how about you lie on your back?" Valjean suggested the next night, firmly holding Javert's hand away from his flaming cock.

Javert did as he was told with much reluctance, but then Valjean straddled his waist and his mouth went dry. 

"I think it will satisfy us both for you to be inside me, and you will not get burned."

Javert, speechless, could not protest. The idea of such pleasure disturbed him, but the image of Valjean atop him, wings held out for balance, was too stunning for him to string together thoughts to refuse. As Valjean sank down upon his cock, all attempts of thought vanished.

Valjean tightened around him hard enough to make him choke. He could feel the muscle flexing, squeezing enough to bruise, yet undulating and drawing him in and out with slick ease. The heat was uncomfortable, and it was already making him sweat.

It was perfect.

His hands clung to Valjean's thick, powerful thighs as he watched Valjean ride him, strong and virile. His wings gave an occasional flap, granting Javert a sweet gust of cool air that prevented the searing heat from making him completely delirious. 

Not only was Valjean hot inside, his fiery cock radiated ripples of heat across Javert's stomach. Javert's eyes rolled and he fought against the sensation that he might faint. Valjean offered no respite, he came down harder and faster, but at least his wings flapped with greater frequency, granting Javert seconds of air each time.

Valjean's beautiful mouth was slack, his eyes closed. He looked divine. Javert's hands fell weakly onto the mattress and he wondered if he was being squeezed too tightly to find release. His vision grew hazy as he panted for breath and he heard Valjeans own breath hitch, felt the deep, shuddering vibration of his moan.

Then Valjean was spending in thick, hot pulses over Javert's skin. It was just like the sensation of molten wax, the sharp sting of the burn before it cooled. Javert cried out, finding his own ecstacy in that sting. 

\-----

Javert blinked to find Valjean’s face above him, and a damp cloth mopping his face. He was in the bath.

"What…"

"You fainted."

Javert grimaced in distaste at his weakness. 

"I thought… I thought I might have killed you," Valjean confessed softly, the cloth in his hands shaking. 

Javert started to laugh and had difficulty stopping.

"Fucked me to death? What a way to go."

Valjean rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled self-consciously.

"I won't do such a thing next time, I'll be more prepared," Javert vowed.

"You wish for us to do that again? You are certain?"

"Have you ever known me to lie?"

The grin Javert gave him might have even been considered devilish.

**Author's Note:**

> Valjean's name is meant to be spelt in the theban alphabet, but I have just approximated with the closest comonly available symbols to make ao3 put something legible
> 
> Wing anatomy is something like [this](https://www.deviantart.com/turtle-arts/art/Humanoid-Wing-Anatomy-Whatnot-336327044)


End file.
